A Feeding of Fire
by FollowThisRhythm
Summary: Her breath exhales in cobwebs and scatters in airy wisps — she cares for him, but she's afraid to admit that she no longer knows how. [Pointless waff.]


A/N. This is set in the canon world of the series, the only differences being that Sakura and Syaoran are older (somewhere in their teens, although it doesn't matter where) and that they _haven't _confessed. This being said, while still taking into account their age/growth, I tried to write them as IC as possible! Also, I'm not used to writing anything as fluffy as this (which must be painfully obvious), so feel free to tell me if this was a total miss.

_And _keep in mind that as this is in Sakura's POV, her views on certain things/people may be slightly off from actuality! ;)

Disclaimer: Disclaimed!

**A Feeding of Fire**

He's giving her that look again.

The frigid metal of the gate pressed against her lower back is seeping through the layers of her clothes; the bars are leaving cool, lingering imprints on her skin like memories of trailing fingertips. A harsh gust of wind flits by and sends the strands of her hair into a whirl around her head, breathes into her stinging, wincing eyes, and she raises an absent hand as if to ward off the sudden onslaught.

He's giving her that look again and all she can do is stare; shy, nervous and fascinated all at once while her heart pounds, eyelashes bow over her faltering eyes, and hands, brushing the hair framing her face behind her ears, begin to perspire.

There's something unintentionally intimidating about Syaoran Li — something utterly arresting about this boy with the tall stature, stoic expression and bright, consuming eyes — and when they had first met in elementary school she had taken notice of this immediately. However, as their familiarity with, and understanding of, one another had grown, that awareness had dulled; and her confidence, at first wavering beneath his piercing glares, had built back up once she came to understand that his aloof personality was more of a front; an unconsciously placed mask that blurred the edges of the nearly disarming gentleness, the surprising reticence, of his design.

The easy comfort she had found in his friendship had begun to change as of late, though; change when something inside of her began to take notice of the tender set of his eyebrows when he would smile, the fluid movements of his lanky body, how his eyes darkened with concentration ... because now, she finds herself as unsure and trembling as she had been all those years ago. Struggling with opaque realizations, attempting to unravel and understand her own emotions, and watching him without any immediate conscious knowledge of her actions. Longing for his words and yearning for his presence — wanting his voice, his attention and his time — because she cares for him, but she's afraid to admit that she no longer knows how. Nevertheless, she _does _know that she isn't supposed to think about him like this, shouldn't wonder about how his arms would feel around her or whether she would fit nicely into his side or what her name would feel like if he were to speak it into her skin.

It's wrong, and even more than that, it's confusing. And yet, worst of all still, she fears that he somehow knows of her inner turmoil, sees the way she has to swallow her urges to duck and run, notices how her gaze follows him and then is reluctant to meet his own, because more often than not, she turns to find him blushing — _blushing!_ — to the roots of his hair; either pointedly looking away or giving her an expression close to wonder and not unlike guilt — _but why, _she wonders for the umpteenth time, her short nails pressing crescents into her palms, _would he feel _guilty_?_

Not for the first time, Sakura wonders what it is that he's thinking as he watches her, imagines the words pressed behind the quiet and almost frustrated line of his lips — _does he understand the things he makes me feel? Is it regret for these erratic emotions that creates such an expression on his face?_ — but she has always found difficulty in grasping anything that wasn't laid plainly before her eyes, and she's found that Syaoran is more perplexing to her than anyone else in her life.

Regardless, even though she still doesn't have an answer, it's there all the same — that look, right now — all autumn, intensity, mysteries and shatteringly soft, and she can't look away. Despite how his look makes her throat and chest constrict, her face uncomfortably hot, she's unwilling to sacrifice the sensation that flutters to life inside of her ribs only when she is holding his gaze.

Another relentless wind hits, tousling his already messy hair and pulling at his uniform, dancing for a moment with his collar and the fabric of his sleeves and legs. Sakura's fingers itch with the sudden desire to feel his shoulders — broad, strong, tense and completely _boy _as she knew they would be — but this thought is what shakes her from her daze; a blush blooming prettily on her cheeks as her nearly numb-with-cold fingers fumble with the handle of her bag.

"Thank you for walking me home," she says as she always does, the same timid but sincere warmth in her words that has only glowed for him in these past months, and again she wants to ask him why: Why, when he has to walk all the way back in the other direction and pass by their school to reach his home, does he so often accompany her back to her own?

_(And why do you look at me like this? Why do you make me feel everything you make me feel? Why can't I ever put __names__ to these sensations, somehow familiar and not?)_

But she doesn't, she never does, because there is something almost breakable in the way they move about one another now, something large and looming and close to bursting that was never there before, and she doesn't want to lose whatever it is that they have because she doesn't want to lose him. She likes the sight of his face and figure in front of her gate (and she likes his face and figure inside of her doorway, on the couch in the living room, at her side when he insists on helping in the kitchen, close as they do their homework and lean across the table to help the other with their own).

She likes this thing between them, and even though she knows she shouldn't — not when he could possibly _know _whatever it is that she's feeling, not when he could possibly feel _guilty _over it — she wants it to be _more._ She wants more of this something that she can't quite comprehend, and she wants more of him, just like this, staring at her as he is now.

"But," Sakura continues, soft as she wakes from her thoughts, "you don't have to always do this for me, you know."

And then there is that smile, her favourite smile. It's the closed-lipped one; the one where his mouth is almost completely still, where an aching sort of tenderness curves the corners of his lips to the most minuscule of degrees. It's the intense-stare one; the one where his eyebrows pull only ever so slightly down, just ever so lightly together, in an expression of almost desperate care that flourishes in the shades that the movement creates in his eyes. It's the one where his smile is really in his gaze; ensnaring her as it arouses a frightening and exciting kind of chaos inside of her heart, a leaping sort of hope that she doesn't yet understand inside of her bones, and a curiosity as to how the barest of facial movements can give him the kindest and dearest of faces.

"I know," he replies, at ease in his composure as if he can't hear the wild thumping of her heart, which is in Sakura's ears almost drowning out his voice, but then a sudden ripple goes through his expression. There is a hardening of his lines, a cloud over the brown tinted amber of his eyes, a beginning flush in the tips of his ears, and when he speaks, his contradicting tone is bordering on indifferent. "Unless you would rather I didn't ...?"

"No!" she protests immediately, embarrassed that she had made him think that she didn't _like _this time alone with him, and even more so when they both start at the volume of her unexpectedly eager shout. His deeply coloured face is wearing an almost comical expression of shock and she would like nothing more than to bury her face in her hands and hide. "I–I mean, I like this. You." Her eyes widen in the same moment that his eyebrows raise impossibly higher and she is certain that her face is now a scarlet that could rival even his own. "W–What I mean is that I really ... really like walking home with you, Syaoran," she corrects, visibly shrinking as she fixes a miserable stare on the pavement at her feet. She nudges one of the many vibrantly coloured leaves there with the toe of her shoe, using it as an excuse to look somewhere other than his face. "It's just that I'm out of your way and I don't want to be an inconvenience to you! Especially when you're always going out of your way for me and being so kind ...," she says, trailing off as she chances a shy glance at him – and the sight she is met with nearly makes her fall over with surprise because he is very clearly suppressing laughter.

All she can do is gape.

"That's ridiculous," he states, astounding her further, but his voice is only benign, and although there is still a receding flush lighting his cheeks and ears, that smile (so familiar) is back.

She blinks once, twice, swallows, and can't help wondering if he realizes that he makes such an expression; ponders at whether or not he would take it away from her if he knew the things that she thought and felt at the sight of it.

Her breath exhales in cobwebs, scatters in airy wisps, and she realizes too late that she still hasn't replied. "W-What?" she finally stutters, feeling more and more chagrined by the second, but his smile only deepens.

"You're never an inconvenience."

Stare. Blush. A swell inside of her chest. "No?"

Kindly: "No."

Relief floods through her at an almost alarming race and she begins to move — clasping her hands behind her and straightening her back as her lips lift into a beam — but she freezes as Syaoran takes a step forward, bringing himself even nearer to her, leaning in – and suddenly, he is so close.

Sakura's breath catches in her throat, muscles lock, and her veins begin to pulse as if they are alive with electricity. She takes in the slight chapping of his lips, the shadowy hints under his shifting shirt of his collarbones, the fire-like flecks in his absorbing eyes. His nearing being becomes the only existing thing to her senses, his long, tanned fingers relax and branch out from their previous clench, his arm brushes comfortably and uncomfortably against her own.

Is he actually ... could he really be ... _does he mean to do __that_?

She feels much too full.

The scent of his clothes and his skin floats lazily up to her nose, soon becoming all that she can breathe; the heat of his body (such a shock next to her own freezing one) radiates, whispering along her every shivering line and pulsing curve; and Sakura, a girl who before him had never felt such one-of-a-kind affection for anyone in this way to seriously entertain such thoughts, realizes that if he were to do _that —_ if he were to close the remaining distance and press his kiss to her lips — she wouldn't be the one to pull away.

It's terrifying and it's exhilarating and she can feel very distinctly as a missing piece abruptly falls into place. Instead of ducking away from the certainty, shying from the staggering recognition, she embraces the reality that she has never wanted something so badly in her life, and a veil lifts as a wall crumbles inside of her mind _because __she care for him _and this changes everything.

Somewhere, a child's shrill laughter rises; carries and bursts like bubbles in the air, it's echoes reverberating and dying. Eyelids inexplicably heavy, heart humming, she only vaguely hears it; wondering as Syaoran nears, the clouds of his breath hovering against her cheek like perfume, teasing, kissing with their fleeting warmth her suddenly heated skin, what it will be like to understand that mouth ...

She is about to move her hand — to brush a curious, steadying touch to his jaw, to toy with the end of his loosened tie, to brace herself as she leans up to meet him halfway — when the click of a latch captures her attention, awakening her from her stupor.

The gate creaks to an open behind her.

Her heart jumps into her throat, and her stomach sinks to her feet.

Syaoran leans back, seemingly unaware of the colossal revelation that's crashed upon her head, but his movements are slow, his hand almost lingering at her elbow, and his smile doesn't look right. "You'll get sick if you stay out here in this," he explains, gesturing to the gate with a tilt of his head and referring to the coming storm, but all she can actually process from the instant is that his care, his face, and his words are all devastatingly precious to her. "You should go inside."

She should say something, Sakura realizes, thank him for his thought or ask him if he would like to come in or at the very least nod her acknowledgement of his words, but there's an enigmatic colour to his complexion and crease to his eyes that's making it impossible for her body to function.

And then dread fills her, claws icy marks into her stomach, and she fears that she might collapse: _Does he realize what I was expecting?_ Was she flushed? Were her eyes giving away the fact that she had wanted the kiss she had believed he had been about to give her?

Her eyes shoot down, bangs falling to obscure what little of her face he could see, and she almost wants to cry in her mortification_. _How _could_ she? He has been so nice, so thoughtful, going out of his way to walk her home and make her smile and fill her with a warmth he doesn't know exists but still creates and she has — she was thinking of _making a move _on him, for goodness sakes! And what if she had actually _done it _before he could finish with the gate? What would have _happened_? She wishes then that Tomoyo were there because she would have doubtlessly picked up on every little thing that had, and hadn't, taken place and deftly steered the moment in another direction — something which required a finesse Sakura herself didn't posses, especially when in the company of Syaoran.

Another pang of mingled remorse and alarm crashes through her as a new question, as horrible as the rest, sprouts: What would _Tomoyo _say? Oh, Sakura was just going to have to confess her humiliation to her, it's really as simple as that, because she can't lie for the life of her, and even if she could, she wouldn't do so to her best friend — _and there's her brother, too!_ What if he's here, right now, inside, for one of his unannounced visits from college?

_Hoeeeee!_

Sakura fights the urge to barrel into the house to check and make sure Touya isn't anywhere around — possibly seeing this and contemplating homicide — because he seems to almost have some sort of sixth sense about 'the brat'; glaring at the door even before Syaoran knocks despite having gave his magic to Yue.

_No wonder he doesn't like Syaoran_, Sakura thinks despairingly. _Touya is always trying to protect me from anything he believes to be _wrong _and I'm always telling him _I'm fine, you don't have to worry —_ but yet, here I am; imagining things I really shouldn't be about this boy__. _Her brother must have realized her weakness when it came to Syaoran and seen it for what it was, leading him to despise the innocent one in this regardless of the fact that what she's feeling and thinking isn't at all his fault!

_Poor Syaoran_.

She reaches up to tug lightly at her scarf, floating back down into the reality of her feet on the ground, his scent in the air, her body shivering with the force of her pulse, and the storm-scented chill nipping at every inch of her uncovered skin. Although only looped loosely around her neck, the muffler suddenly feels as if it's interrupting her ability to breathe.

Before her, Syaoran shifts — shoulders lifting, chest rising, bones and muscles and flesh yawning as he takes in a deep, silent intake of air — and she nearly jumps back at the unexpected movement; a coward through and through because she can only look at everything unrelated to him.

Perhaps the moment, the silence thick with words unsaid, is his goodbye because before she can even exhale her shuddering breath or tame the violent heat painting her face, he is already turning; walking away without a word in an unusually brusque manner.

And again, both her heart and stomach lurch from their respective places.

Sakura supposes that it might be best that he's leaving — best that she is away from him so she can _think _and _breathe —_ and while it makes sense to just turn around, go inside and collapse onto her bed so she can work all of this out, she can't move her feet, place her hand against the arctic metal of the gate, tear her eyes from his back. There is something about the sight of him walking away that makes an indescribable ache shatter inside of her chest, and everything about his retreating form, her emotions and sudden, suffocating secret is hard to bear.

Her shout bursts out of her mouth, rings against the whistling wind, flutters amongst the spidery, shivering branches, and blends into the surrounding autumn song; a far-off slamming door, the rustling of their clothes, the scraping leaves twirling violently at their feet and her still thrashing pulse accompanying: "Syaoran!"

(She can't bear for this to be left as is.)

He pauses immediately in his stride, glancing back at her over his shoulder, and his expression is still but blank. One hand shoved into his pocket, the wind again favours his unbuttoned collar, dangling tie and dark, unkempt hair.

The position gives her a stunning view of his facial structure; flustered, she wets her lips.

"I ... It–it looks like it's going to rain," Sakura finally manages, weak and faltering, but even she doesn't know whether her words are a warning for him to watch out and take care, or if they are a request for him to come in and wait it out at her side.

Her fingers grip the side of her skirt; his face flares red.

Body becoming rigid, head whipping back around, he clearly understands the words she hadn't said, and his following assurance of _I'm fine — _uttered hastily and in a near bark — is familiar. If not for her nerves, she would have grinned at the tone that always arose when she showed even the slightest bit of interest or concern over him and his well-being.

_That boy. _

Dropping her bag without care, reaching up to unwind her scarf, propelling her legs forward as she runs after him, she opens her mouth to call his name once more and tastes the fever of her impulse on her tongue; marvels at how he can be so composed one moment and impossibly shy the next.

The crimson of his skin, having gathered into two patches on his cheeks from the biting wind, spreads again with a vengeance and he cries out at the suddenness of, and lack of distance between, her body next to his own. "_W__–_W_–_What are you d_–_doing?" he stutters wildly, arms tense and positioned oddly at his sides, and he is thwarted in his attempts to step back as she winds her scarf (blue and warm and Sakura-scented) around his neck. It looks a bit ridiculous next to his ruffled uniform, but in an endearing kind of way that makes her heart stutter, a bubble of delighted laughter ballooning inside of her.

"It isn't much," she says, cheeks the colour of her namesake and fingers nervously fumbling with the fabrics' ends as she glances up at him, somehow emboldened by his own blushing and frantic stammering and feeling much less embarrassment at the action than she should, "but hopefully it will provide a little bit of heat." Her touch moves farther up, straightening the cloth, hands and fingers whispering fleetingly against the sides of his throat and neck, and he almost appears to be wincing.

His eyebrows are pulled together, his mouth pressed into a firm, almost overwhelmed line as he hunches over to the slight degree needed for her hands to reach, and although they aren't actually doing anything wrong — nothing that should be kept in private — something about their bodies so close, her hands at his neck, and the sharing of her scarf feels so incredibly intimate all the same.

Syaoran's breath blooms in several shivering swells; when he speaks, breaking the brimming silence, his voice is hoarse.

"Sa_–_Sakura?"

And she swallows at the sound, heart crashing off of her ribs. "Hm?"

His eyes, startlingly amber and bright up close, finally focus on hers. "You ... don't have to ... do this."

"I want to."

"Oh." Syaoran's gaze flickers away and back, his adam's apple bobbing. "W-Well, thanks, then," he mumbles, and when her hands fall to her side, he jumps from her as if burned, going impossibly redder as he clears his throat. "I'll ... I'll see you. Later. T_–_Tomorrow. At school." And then he is spinning around and marching away, his right arm and leg moving almost in sync to the other, and Sakura has to clamp her teeth down into her bottom lip to keep from giggling aloud.

As she waves after him, this time allowing him to leave uninterrupted, she doesn't even notice the smile she's wearing until her curious, fluttering fingertips reach up and taste it.

Thunder crashes.

She hopes that he will make it home before the storm.

–

"I trust you had a pleasant walk home?"

Her hand pauses over her blanket, the imaginary trails her fingertips had made as they traced the stretching lines of the seams evaporate, and she sits up, pulling the pillow she had been holding along.

Tomoyo's question, although spoken as a statement, is familiar; one which Sakura has been continuously asked for months now, one that she hasn't ever understood, and one elusive in comprehension not because of the words, but because of the context. It was Tomoyo's tone (always so amused, always suggesting that she was holding a secret), it was how she only ever asked after Sakura had been with Syaoran, it was how Tomoyo's replies to her answers were always so strangely nonchalant, so almost intentionally vague, that confused Sakura.

Now, however ... She stands, attempting to ignore the increasing warmth pooling in her veins, and paces somewhat restlessly over to her window, contemplating for a moment the swirling sky and fragmenting rain, her breath as it clings in a blush of wintry mist against the glass. Her eyes fall to a near close ... Now, as she clutches the phone, remembers what took places only hours before, she realizes that she does understand that tone, those words, the previously inexplicable interest: Tomoyo has always known; she's always known Sakura's emotions for him, and she's only been waiting for her to understand them herself.

Sakura smiles. "It was fine ..." she finally replies, faint because she can't yet admit that these feelings exist beyond her heart and mind, but her voice is void of it's usual exuberance.

Tomoyo's following silence is enough to tell Sakura that she knows, too, the words she hasn't said.

Another smile curls her mouth, lifts minutely at her feverish cheeks, subdued, poignant and thriving with affection. She uses her free hand to wipe her window clear. "I think, though," she begins shyly, head leaning against her window pane, hair sighing against her tilted neck and cheekbones, and she pauses for a moment, designing possible paths in her mind. "I'm not sure how ... but some things are going to change," she finishes, her absent, gossamer-glazed eyes finding the place outside on which Syaoran had been standing; fingers splaying out across the window, hovering over the spot.

"I believe so as well," Tomoyo agrees, mischievous and promising, and Sakura's smile manages to further soften, her thoughts drifting beyond the sunshine walls and shattering sky ...

Her scarf will smell like him when it's returned.

– _& _–

A/N. Certain parts don't flow as well as I'd like, but I'm pleased overall and I hope that you are, too. This said, please don't favourite this without leaving a review. Thank you! x


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